
Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. Part I.
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The Handkerchief of the Lord
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am. Once amused, complacent, compassionate, idle, unitary,. looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders; I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. A child said, what is the grass fetching it to me with full hands? How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. It must be the flag of my disposition out of hopeful green stuff woven, or I guess it is the handkerchief of the
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